


Helpful

by alt3r3go



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Desperation, Gen, Situational Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 16:07:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alt3r3go/pseuds/alt3r3go
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sight of him desperate and reduced to mere needy human gave her a tiny thrill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helpful

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to this prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/18842.html?thread=112916122#t112916122

Her phone chirped discreetly and she stepped back from the conversation she was pretending to participate in to check the message. She was Anthea again today; it seemed to go well with brown hair. With auburn hair she was usually Xenia, blonde was Chrysanthe or once, memorably, Oriana. The one time she had tried a fiery red she had been Nike, though Mr. Holmes, smiling drily, had suggested Eris for the next time.

The text was not unexpected but vaguely disappointing; she had been enjoying the food for once. She tapped out two quick messages in response and went to find her boss, a task made easier by his unmistakable height.

"They want us back in London immediately," she murmured when she was close enough. "I've told Wright to bring the car to the garden lane."

Mr. Holmes nodded and put down his half-empty wine glass. "Very good. I will apologise to our hosts and meet you there."

The party was in full swing, which made leaving a great deal easier. She slipped out of the house and around, climbing into the car with a bit of a relieved sigh: apart from the caterers nothing at the party had been even remotely worth their time.

A few minutes later Mr. Holmes joined them as well and nodded for Pete Wright to start the car. "A great waste of time," he confirmed, leaning back. "It was obvious from the beginning that the ambassador was not aware of anything."

"Just as you suspected, sir," Anthea said loyally. They all had; it was obvious the man was barely able to tell his arse from his elbow.

"Do you—" Mr. Holmes began just as Anthea produced the files on the attachés. "Ah, yes. Thank you."

The journey east passed in silence. Mr. Holmes was absorbed in the files and Anthea was keeping abreast of the Korean situation and the Heathcote-Dashwood debacle on her Blackberry. The latter was getting more and more absurd every day and Anthea suspected that before long Mr. Holmes would be asked to step in lest the Daily Mail should get wind of the situation. Privately she thought that if the idiots weren't careful they'd end up as a Twitter hashtag in no time, but that wasn't something she would say to Mr. Holmes uninvited.

It wasn't until they had been on the M3 for a while that she realised that something was slightly off. Mr. Holmes was normally a man of infinite patience and in any case he had cultivated the habit of never moving until he needed to. It was therefore unusual to see him shift position three times in ten minutes. She watched covertly, never looking up from the small screen, and saw his thighs tense and relax under the pinstriped wool. Another minute shift, a brief annoyed twist of his lips, and she had her answer.

The sympathetic wince never actually showed on Anthea's face, of course, but it was there nonetheless. Still, there was nothing she could do. She rather doubted Mr. Holmes would tell Pete to stop at the next services as they were rather close to the M25 and, well, Mr. Holmes had never been keen on being exposed as an actual human being with actual human weaknesses and needs. She vividly remembered a time some two or three years ago when he had nearly passed out from heat and thirst because he wouldn't accept as much as a glass of water in order not to lose face during a difficult negotiation.

Mr. Holmes had supervised parts of her training himself and so he would likely know that she had noticed him fidgeting and had likely deduced the cause. Nevertheless, Anthea made sure to keep her attention focussed on her Blackberry and not give him any indication that she was aware of him at all. This was made easier by the fact that Heathcote had apparently threatened to expose Dashwood to the press which meant that the "please, Mycroft, could you talk some sense into them?" call from Number 10 was imminent.

It took Pete slowing down half an hour later to make her look up. "Pile-up on the M25," he said, meeting her eyes in the rear-view mirror. "Sorry, Mr. Holmes, we're stuck for now. I'll call ahead to let them know."

Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Mr. Holmes tense up, fingers tightening on the files he still held. His voice was as smooth as usual, however. "Thank you, Wright."

Anthea craned her head to look out of the window. In the early evening the tail lights of the cars ahead stretched like a red ribbon.

The car slowed down to a crawl, then stopped. Pete turned off the engine with a sigh. In the sudden silence Anthea heard the whisper of cloth as Mr. Holmes shifted in his seat, then leaned back.

Ten minutes later it seemed like being stuck in the middle of Surrey with no prospects of immediate rescue had eroded Mr. Holmes' control in the way that the two preceding hours hadn't managed. He adjusted his seatbelt. He crossed his legs and uncrossed them again a minute later. He dropped his hand to his thigh, files forgotten, fist clenching and unclenching; had he been alone in the backseat he might have slipped his hand in his pocket to hold himself, Anthea thought, and then told herself sharply to stop thinking about him at all.

She looked out of the window again. They were in the middle lane, cars crowding in on the right and the solid wall of a lorry on the left and in any case Mr. Holmes was not likely to make a break for the trees, weaving between lorries and jumping over the barrier.

The absurd image seemed to override enough of her painfully proper thoughts to allow her to finally turn her head and look at Mr. Holmes openly. The sight was pitiful: he was hunched over awkwardly, hands between his clenched knees and sweat beading on his hairline. She could hear his shallow pants in the silence of the still car.

If she was honest with herself the sight of him desperate and reduced to mere needy human gave her a tiny thrill: a touch of schadenfreude at seeing her always proper and exact superior brought low but also slightly hysterical wonder at this insight into Mycroft Holmes as a man with a body, as opposed to Mr. Holmes, walking and talking power constellation in a three-piece suit.

Sensing her looking at him Mr. Holmes turned his head to meet her eyes. His lips thinned in displeasure and he straightened in his seat, attempted nonchalance belied by the frantic jiggling of his knee.

It was certainly a desperate time, and a second later her eyes fell on the desperate measure. The water bottle she liked to carry in the car was almost empty; she'd meant to throw it away earlier but hadn't got around to it. Pulling it out of the front seat's pocket she took a deep breath, for courage, and held the bottle out to Mr. Holmes.

The glare she received in return would have melted titanium. Anthea steeled herself for a scathing rebuke, except it never came because Mr. Holmes bent over as a spasm hit him hard.

There was a sudden noise and she jumped before realising that Pete had turned on the radio in the car. Their eyes met in the mirror again and Pete gave her a quick understanding grimace before turning to look out of the window.

Anthea quickly followed his example, except that in the twilight the glass was reflecting the inside of the car quite clearly. She saw Mr. Holmes pause before another spasm twisted him in knots and decided the matter. He fumbled at his trousers with jerky, uncoordinated movements, frantic now, and then even the ear-splitting shriek of the radio couldn't conceal the sound of liquid hitting plastic.

She looked down at her Blackberry again, listening with half an ear to his long exhale of relief which was almost a groan. It went on and on and on; no wonder he had been desperate, she thought. Then, finally, silence. The brief slam of the door as he disposed of the bottle.

Anthea waited another moment then risked a brief glance at Mr. Holmes. He was scarcely more relaxed now, the urgency of his bursting bladder exchanged for the urgency of his embarrassment. He resolutely avoided her eyes, a furious blush rolling down over his ears and cheeks as she watched.

She looked away again. Neither she nor Pete would ever mention or allude to the incident, of course. However, she rather fancied that if Mr. Holmes ever threw one of his very rare strops again she might call herself Alexis. Or even Dalit.


End file.
